The Fire Within
by 13ASB
Summary: Summer Mellark, the quiet daughter of Katniss and Peeta, has never found the normal life she's always wanted in District 12. Friendship, love, privacy - these are things she has never known. But life won't give her an easy path - and as trouble brews for the daughter of the Girl on Fire, Summer will be forced to spark a fire of her own.
1. The Cold

_**Brief summary: 23 years after the end of the rebellion, Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen's 15 year-old daughter, Summer, never has had the normal childhood she craves. Born under the shade of her famous parents, Summer chafed under lofty expectations that she wants no part of – expectations that have driven her to loneliness and pain. But in the ensuing twilight descending upon Panem, the reserved daughter of District 12's rebellious heroes will be forced to forge her own legacy – or fall victim to the darkness in her own heart.**_

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_**Author's Note: This is the story of Peeta and Katniss's daughter, Summer, and the path shrouded in fog that she'll have to walk. Due to the sake of populating this story, some minor changes are in effect: Prim and Finnick aren't dead. President Snow's descendants were never found in the Capitol. Katniss and Peeta had their first child – in this, their son is the oldest – only five years after the revolution ended, rather than 15. Suzanne Collins owns The Hunger Games, Panem, Katniss, Peeta, Finnick, Annie, Haymitch, etc… Enjoy the story! And as always, I enthusiastically welcome feedback! And yes, I am still working on the "From Dust" series…just diversifying.**_

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**District 12, 23 Years After the Rebellion  
**

I never liked the cold.

I suppose I should have gotten used to it by now. After all, during the three months of winter, all it does here in District 12 is snow. The trees, the leaves, the sounds of birds – everything's covered up by a thick carpet of white. I can deal fine with the heat of summer – there's ways to beat that. But the cold gets everywhere – even when my dad lights a bright, cheery yellow fire in our brick hearth back home, it doesn't keep out the angry knives of winter. There's no escape for three months.

Ugh, I'm complaining again. I keep telling myself I'll stop doing that – my mom makes sure to remind me that I'm a "complainer" on a frequent basis. It's the little things like that that make me wish she just left me alone.

You probably know my parents. Most everyone in Panem does; who doesn't hear the story of "Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, the star-crossed lovers of District 12" everywhere, regardless of district – even now, more than twenty years after the rebellion they sparked came to an end? You'd think someone would get tired of retelling the same worn-out story, but somehow, it's always fun.

Fun to everyone but me, at least.

I kick a hard clump of snow out of my way as I walk by the district's town square. The old buildings of stone and brick look quiet against the snow as antiquated sentinels on a muted canvas. Sandwiched between two gray hovels stands my dad's bakery. It's a slumping two-story building, charming in a way with yellow light slipping out of two frosty windows. Even in the dead of winter, my dad's somehow managed to keep a planter of flowers alive in the windowsill. It's fitting – the small, white flowers are from a plant called a duck potato, or arrowhead.

Most people know the plant by another name, however – katniss.

I walk right past the bakery without stopping in. I don't feel like seeing my dad right now as I shamble past the charred rebar-and -ruins of the former Hall of Justice, a reminder to the fires of rebellion that have long since died. The snow depresses me as I keep my head down, careful to avoid being noticed by the two dozen or so people going about their midday chores. It's not just my dad – he's nice enough for a father, but I really don't want to speak to anyone right now. Leave me alone, world.

Of course, it never works that way. The blonde-haired boy with the boyish face who jogs over to me spotted me long before I noticed him. Flint is a good guy – he's always been nice to me when a lot of the other fifteen year-olds in the district have given me a hard time over the years. Some of them want the spotlight that shines on my family; others just see me as an easy target. I guess it's hard _not_ to pick on the quiet girl.

"Summer," Flint calls to me as he strolls up. "Um, saw you walking around. Just wanted to say hi."

"Well…hi," I reply. What am I supposed to say to that? Sometimes Flint's nonthreatening demeanor can frustrate me – it's not as if I'm full of quick, witty retorts to everything everyone says.

"I, uh," he picks around for words as I shove my hands into my pants' pockets. Did I mention it's cold? "I like your coat. It matches your eyes."

"My eyes are blue," I say. "My coat's brown. I don't really think they match."

"Well, your hair's brown," Flint recovers awkwardly. Oops. "So…okay, fine. I'm not good at fashion and that kind of thing. Like matching clothes. Why do you always wear your hair like that, anyway?"

He picks my ponytail off my shoulder with a cautious hand. Flint's subtleties often make me wonder what he really thinks of me. Is he just trying to be friendly? If it's more than that, he's certainly hesitant to make a move. "It's simple," I answer, looking down at the snow. "I'm not gonna spend an hour putting things in my hair like Hera."

I roll my eyes as I let the name of District 12's resident gossip roll of my tongue. Hera's fifteen like me, but born in District 1 before her family moved here. I don't know _why_ anyone would do that, but they certainly brought all their District 1 idiosyncrasies with them. I don't understand fashion and such things. Maybe it's me who's weird, given that Hera commands attention from virtually every boy in the district – and thinks I'm less than dirt. What's beneath dirt; lava? Or just earthworms?

"Hm," Flint just murmurs to my comment, his brown eyes trickling over my thick coat. "Were you…going home?"

"Ever?"

"Well…obviously, but I meant now. Were you walking back to your home?"

I don't want to go back to my family's house in the Seam right now. No one will be home, which is a nice perk. My dad's at the bakery; my older brother, Reed, has plenty of friends of his own to hang around with; and my mom…will be out hunting. That's seemingly all she ever does when my dad's baking at the shop: That and hanging around old Haymitch Abernathy (although I don't see why _he's_ exciting. What's fun about feeding geese? All they do is poop an quack.) Home alone would give me some peace and quiet. However, I don't want to go back to that place until my mom's running around the district, threatening to scalp me if I don't "get my butt back home this instant."

"No," I answer Flint truthfully. "I don't really have anything to do right now. Why?"

"I kinda just wanted…" Flint begins. "Um, just wanted to go walk around the forest a bit. It's snowy, kinda nice. It'd look weird if it was just me, though…d'you want to join me?"

Snow? Nice? Ha! "Why's that weird?"

"I dunno; I just think people see someone by themselves as…different, I guess. Strange."

"I must be really strange, then," I murmur, looking past Flint and into the snow.

"No, I don't mean that," he backpedals. "It's just…let's talk about something else. You wanna come?"

I'm worried about running into my mom accidentally – heavens forbid that – but I agree. Outside of Flint, my cousin Iris, and a girl a year older than me named Vesta, I don't have anyone else my age to do anything with. Ugh, there I go again…

We walk for a few minutes in silence, just strolling through the snow-covered, barren, trees without a word. The snow muffles everything here. It's completely quiet – something even I can enjoy despite the biting cold. Blood rushes to my cheeks in the frigid air, but if it wasn't for the chill, Flint would actually be right – it is sort of nice in the woods like this.

"Summer," he finally breaks the silence, refusing to make eye contact as he speaks. "I've always wanted to know…I figure you don't get much time for this kind of thing, what with your parents and all. What's it like with them?"

"Well, I think my mom's disappointed that I don't shoot animals like she does."

"Not like that. I mean…just, all that lack of privacy, where everyone in Panem knows everything about you, regardless of what you do or don't do."

How do I even start this – and why bring it up? "It's…I don't like all the people that come from the Capitol or the Districts out west, or whatever. I wish they'd just leave us alone, rather than always tromping to our house, bombarding my parents with questions about this and that news and how they feel about it. Or the history people who show up at the door from time to time, wanting my mom's recount of the war…I get tired of it. Them. Cameras."

"Do they ever ask you anything?"

"No. They ask my parents _about_ me, but they don't ask me anything. It's like I don't even control my own life or how most people know me, like – sorry, I'm just complaining. You probably don't want to know all the little things like this."

"No, I do," Flint's looking right at me, and I look up to realize that I've nearly walked straight into a tree. So much for multitasking.

"Why?" I ask. Truth be told, I'm always a little suspicious of people who want to know more about me. Maybe it's all the "journalist" types who never bothered to ask me about myself – simply getting it from second-hand information, like my parents – who make me wary of people getting close.

"What you have to say's interesting."

"I'm _interesting_?" I raise an eyebrow.

"That came out wrong," he stammers. "Look, Summer, you're…a friend. I just feel like you never get stuff off your chest. If it were me, that'd hurt after building up."

"Maybe I like it that way," I reply, turning my face away from Flint. "Maybe it hurts more to tell people things."

"That sounds like an excuse."

"I don't know!" I burst out. That was a little too harsh of me – but now I can't help it. This is _exactly_ the kind of thing I didn't want to discuss. I'm terrible at managing my feelings. "I don't know, Flint! I don't even understand myself. Why should anybody else? You said it. I'm just strange. Weird. I'm supposed to be some prodigal daughter of two famous people, but all I want is to just live my life. I don't belong here. I'm supposed to be something I'm not, and I end up being nothing."

I stop myself on the verge of tears. The last thing I need to do in front of Flint is cry – show one of the only people who even talks to me like I'm a normal person that I'm really not.

"Summer…" Flint starts, drawing closer to me. I turn my back – why do I do that? – and face a frosty tree, ashamed of my reaction. I'm embarrassing myself. I shouldn't have gone on this walk; every time someone asks personal stuff, I always do something dumb and end up humiliated.

It's getting colder.

Flint doesn't get the chance to say something. In what seems like an instant, someone's calling out to us – not my parents or any adult, but several voices I absolutely do _not_ want to hear at my most vulnerable.

"Look at this! How sweet – did we have an argument?"

I wipe my eyes quickly on my shoulder, looking up a snowy hill to see red-haired Hera standing haughtily before me. With her hand on her skewed hips and her lip pouted just enough to be noticeable, she looks like some hideous Capitol ideal of fashion. Her red-and-green jacket, _imported_ from District 1, doesn't help. Standing beside her is a hulk of a brown-haired boy lacking in any form of intelligence named Charr. For lack of a better word, he's a complete moron – if a brawny one. Perhaps it's all that meat that keeps him warm in the winter.

Two other boys flank them, but I can't tell who they are from here. No doubt people I'd rather not talk to.

"Hera, now's not a great time," Flint begins weakly. Unfortunately with this crowd, weak isn't the way to be taken seriously.

"Piss off. What are you, her boyfriend?" Hera swaggers down the hill right at me, chewing on something like a cow. "We all know she couldn't get one anyway. Ain't that right, Summer Bummer? More like dumber."

Charr's laugh at her remark is positively porcine. It sounds somewhere between a choking noise and a long exhale – either way, I'm hesitant to even call it a "laugh."

"Go away," I mutter softly. I can't be strong to people like this.

"Nope," Hera says, sticking a hand against a tree and leaning on one leg. "Don't think I will. What were you telling limp-dick here? Oh wait…"

She squints her beady gray eyes at my face, her mouth turning upwards in a cruel smile before announcing loudly to everyone present, "Ohh…must've been bad. Were you _crying_?"

Hera's following laugh isn't idiotic like Charr's – it's sadistic.

"Mommy and daddy not here to give you a hug?" Hera remarks as soon as she's done. "Must be tough, being such a disappointment. Everyone knows your mom thinks you're a failure. I mean, it's not like she's lying…"

"Leave me alone," I pull my coat around my body tighter, trying to fend off the icy chill of winter and Hera's words. I won't deny it – they hurt. I'm hurt. Why can't she leave me alone? "I didn't do anything. Just go away."

"Hera…" Flint's attempt at defending me goes beyond "sad" and into the realm of "Classical tragedy."

"Thought I told you to beat it," she snipes at him before turning back to me. Of course. I'm the "fun" target. "Looks like you're cold, Summer Bummer. How 'bout I fix that for you?"

Without warning, Hera pulls back her hand and strikes me with the flat of her palm. The blow lands squarely on my lower lip with force, catching me by surprise and sending me straight down into the snow. My rear lands in the stuff with a _plop_, freezing my pants in an instant. Immediately I'm aware of the pain in my lip, but I only comprehend it when I see the drops of scarlet blood painting a hurting picture on the ground's frozen canvas.

"Ha!" Hera laughs, standing over me as I try to make myself small. "Just sit there, then. Don't even get up. C'mon Charr. Let's go find something less disappointing to do. I'm bored with this stupid girl today."

Charr's grunting "laughter" is all I hear as I watch Hera walk away. She turns after three steps, welling up a ball of spit a hucking it right on my coat. I turn my face away in preparation for a second shot, but she's turning back again, leaving. I'm not even normal enough to bully for more than ten minutes, I guess.

"Don't listen to her," Flint says quietly after Hera and her pack leaves. "Are you okay, Summer?"

"Leave me alone."

"What?"

"Leave me alone!" I shout at him. Flint doesn't deserve that, but I'm tired of being humiliated today. I'm tired of the embarrassment; of people watching me get kicked around. I just want to be alone.

Flint stands over me for a minute before walking away as well, uncertain enough of my mood to not even lend a hand getting up. It's fine – I don't really want to get up. I watch blood dribble off my lip into the snow – _drip, drip drip_. It's a microcosm for my life. This snow was perfect and white before I came along; more and more, it seems everyone's life would be better without me messing things up, too. I don't know what I did to earn this life, but it must have been pretty bad.

It's not just Hera and her little gang – it's the adults my mom and dad know, looking at me patronizingly as if I'm disabled. It's a dismissing hand from my mom, telling me I'm not wanted as she broods over some issue or memory. It's a sympathizing word from my dad, tossed out not in empathy, but in pity. This life of recognition – of lofty expectations where everyone knows your name? It's not special. It's not something precious. It just hurts.

The snow's cold as I lay in it. I never liked the cold.


	2. The Stranger

Warm air rushes over me as I step into my house, but it's futile in lifting my spirits. What little enthusiasm I had left after Hera embarrassed me in front of Flint has long since been sapped by the cold. At least my lip's stopped bleeding by this point; whether that's due to the blood coagulating or simply freezing is anyone's guess.

A lapping orange fire licks at the bricks of the fireplace as I take off my boots. I toss them by the door and leave my snow-soaked socks hanging off their sides in frustration. My feet are cold, wet, and have skin that looks like a giant pink raisin, rendered as strange beasts that explore the rough wooden floor. My dad looks up from one of two high-backed, plush, olive chairs near the fireplace, but his initial expression of contentment dies after one glance at my face. The flickering light of the fire makes the lines of his face look all the more pronounced. It's not as if my dad's old, either – he's only forty.

"Summer, what's wrong?" He says a second after making eye contact. Unlike my mom, my dad has an acute ability to immediately figure out when all's not right with the world.

"Nothing," I lie. "I'm fine, daddy."

I can't even admit my shortcomings to my dad. What's wrong with me?

"What happened to your lip?"

So many questions! "I…slipped and fell on ice. I'm fine."

My dad steps out of his chair, putting something down on a table and coming over. I turn away as he puts an arm around one of my shoulders, pulling me into his chest. He's always a lot bigger up close; my dad's by no means tall, but he's strong. I don't have any doubts on how he was able to survive in the Hunger Games back during darker times.

"Your mom used that same excuse once, when we were younger," my dad tells me, his voice soft and careful not to upset me. "Said she slipped on a patch of ice and hurt herself. Turns out she instead nearly broke her foot trying to jump over the old fence on the edge of the district. Summer, you can tell me things, alright? Is everything okay?"

It's these little things that give my dad such power with his words. I'm always hesitant to talk about myself, but how am I supposed to stay silent when he's crushing me with kindness? I have no defense.

"Um, a girl…pushed me," I stumble over the words I don't want to say. "We had a disagreement."

"Are you hurt?"

"No. I'm fine. Please don't tell mom."

My dad gives me an odd look. "Alright. It's our secret…but if I can ask, is everything fine between you and your mother?"

Gah, I shouldn't have said that. I'm just digging a deeper hole for myself – and now I've got to bail out all the suspicion. "Nothing's wrong, daddy – really. Don't worry about me."

"Alright," he gives up, but I can see something new enter his eyes – so much like mine. It's not anger, or happiness or any stirring emotion. It's hurt – pain that he's losing his own daughter to the recesses of her mind. And it hurts me back to know that I'm responsible for 100% of that.

My dad lets me go, returning to his chair before calling me over: "Come on over, Summer. I've just been looking through all these memories."

Feeling guilty, I walk slowly over to him and rest a weary arm on the chair back. I've seen this book before – an old, frayed tome of pictures, writings, and the occasional photo of people, places, things. My parents wrote it up just after the rebellion had ended, when my mom was feeling despondent and left behind by a rebuilding world. I don't recognize most of the stuff inside of it – it's primarily people they knew, many of whom were killed off in the fighting, others still around but far from District 12.

"Do you remember Finnick and Annie?" my dad turns to a page with a photo of a young man and woman, looking lost in love with their green eyes shining. It's an expression I've seen with my parents – but not while they're looking after me. "Gosh, it was…six years ago that we last saw them. Their youngest son, Drake; he's your age, should be turning sixteen soon. Wish we had a picture of the whole family in here. Do you remember when we visited District 4 when you were young?"

"Yeah," I reply, although I only barely hold on to the memories. I was five at the time; most of the flashbacks to the faraway land are things I've certainly distorted over time. Water, the smell of salty sea, the cries of birds – every standard "ocean" trope crammed into one hazy memory.

"I think you'd get along well with Annie," my dad goes on, losing himself in his own little world. "She's a lot like you. Quiet, but contemplative. There's a lot going on upstairs in her brain; she just holds it close."

According to my mom, Annie Cresta (now Odair) was apparently a psychologically-crippled nutty girl during the rebellion. Thanks for the parallel, dad.

And just in time, I hear the door open again behind me and the heavy tread of boots on the floor. My mom pulls a thick braid of hair out from her coat's hood, chucking a filled bag of dead animal on the floor. I know where she's been within seconds of her entering, apart from the forest collecting game – there's whiskey on her breath. My dad explained to me once that my mom coped with the pain of all her memories by hunting and drinking with Haymitch – and today, it seems she's been doing both.

Must be some bad memories.

"Just in time, babe," my dad gets up, leaving me alone in the chair. "I brought home some – "

"I need to sit down," my mom interrupts him, kicking the game bag towards the wall and plopping in the vacant chair. She looks right at me as she does so, immediately noticing what's different: "What'd you do to your face?"

I would say that's Haymitch wearing off on her, but it's been that way for a long time now. My dad always says I look like my mom, but as I appraise her now, I realize I really don't. She has a rough face with clearly-defined features, worn out by years of rebellion and hunting and offering fake smiles for blinking cameras intruding in all our lives. It's a face hewn by struggle; one of toughness and power – two things I know I'll never have.

"Nothing," I mutter. Maybe I could let out the details to my dad, but not to her.

"At least clean it up. That looks disgusting and bloody," she replies without even hearing me, getting out of her seat and heading for our well-stocked kitchen. "Stay there. I'll do it."

My mom is _not_ a practicing nurse by any means. She lacks any of the grace of medicinal art that my aunt Prim has, and it shows as she dumps a copious amount of a clear solution on a rag. I hunch up against the chair, wishing for anyone else but her to be doing this. Didn't I say it was fine?

"Hold still," my mom says brusquely, jamming the rag against my lip with a sting. I clench my jaw reflexively, ignoring that the action will only frustrate her more. I mentally promise myself that I'll never try alcohol.

"Katniss…" my dad starts, looking on helplessly.

"Hold _on_, Peeta. Why do you make such a mess, Summer?" she asks, removing the rag and blotting up the stinging solution on my face with all the delicacy of a frenzied bull. "Your brother never got in trouble."

"And I'm not out with some floozy girl like him," I reply angrily, wriggling my way out of the chair and away from her grasp.

I storm upstairs as fast as I can go, speeding away before my mom has any chance to lash out at me. To my surprise, she doesn't follow. I do hear the conversation between my parents downstairs as I leave, though – and while I can't make out many of the words, I do quite clearly hear my mom's line, "What's her problem?"

My sparse room upstairs provides my only sanctuary. Besides my small bed and a closet with my clothes, I don't own much. It's dim and dark in here during the winter months; in the twilight of this evening, barely any light even comes through the square window of my far wall. I don't bother to turn on my lamp, opting instead to push aside my stuffed rabbit that's been my best friend since I was a baby. I cram my face into my lone pillow on my bed, languishing in the dim darkness and wishing things could be different.

What's my problem? Maybe everything around me is my problem! Maybe I don't belong in this stupid district that farms crops and makes medicine and bakes bread. Maybe I don't belong in Panem, where the Capitol thinks it's so great that it's cracking down again just twenty-odd years after the rebellion that was supposed to make things all equal. Maybe it's not even that – maybe it's just the people. Maybe they're the ones getting to me; maybe I'm tired of the ridicule and gawking mouths.

I hear a certain eccentrically-dressed man from the Capitol who visits my parents with the nosy cameras – his name's Plutarch Heavensbee – talk about "the way things once were." He expends minutes and hours on what he's gleaned from the world before Panem; when "billions of people" supposedly had plenty and took little things for granted. When people didn't even need to value life, but felt entitled to it. As hard as it is to believe his stories, maybe I belonged in that kind of era.

At least I could get some privacy with billions of people, right?

I don't even hear my mom come up the stairs a few hours later. No doubt I've missed dinner by smashing my face into my bed in a vain attempt to tune out the world. As she opens my door, I flop over on my side and turn away. I don't need her crocodile tears.

"Summer?" she speaks up, her voice restrained from its earlier bluntness.

"No," I respond, too worn-out to even tell her to go away.

"I was a little rash when I came home," she continues anyway, sitting down next to my bed and putting a hand on my shoulder. I shudder involuntarily at the touch. "I'm sorry. I'm just going through some stuff right now."

"Like what?" I grunt, more out of frustration than actual interest.

"Some old things…and people," my mom says, careful not to spill the details. "Your father said you had a bad day."

A thought comes to my mind as I stare at my dark wall. I haven't tried being open and honest with my mom for a long time. Is she really trying to get to know me better? Does she deserve a chance to make up for whatever slights I carry against her? I suppose I'd be hypocritical not to give her a chance.

Before my pessimistic side tells me not to do so, I slip up: "A girl hit me. She won't stop picking on me for…for I don't know what. I'm tired of it. I just want her and the others with her to stop, but I don't have anybody to help me. I just feel alone."

"Sometimes we just have to be tough," my mom replies. "Be strong, Summer. You don't have to let them weigh you down."

Experiment results: Summer 0, mom's typical blunt and unwavering attitude 1. The "anyone can be tough at any time" line doesn't work for me. Pessimistic me wins again. My mom doesn't understand what I feel. She never will. No point in giving her a chance; every time I do, she just reminds me that I'm not her. I'm not rebellion mockingjay. I'm no Girl on Fire. I'm just a girl.

I curl up tighter on my bed in a silent reply. My mom takes it as a sign to leave after several quiet minutes, returning me to the solitude of the darkness. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven't eaten – but I can't gather the strength to get up and show my face to my parents. No doubt they'll be talking about me again, wondering how their stupid daughter went wrong.

Outside my window, a bright flare shoots across the starry night sky. It's probably a shooting star, coming here from whatever's far above in the night sky. I wonder _why_ it would come here when there's clearly so much else out there – so much more to explore and to find interest in, and the star decides to visit this cold, alien land in District 12.

I'd gladly trade spaces.


	3. Numb

_**A/N: Apologies for the huge delay/hiatus. Been coordinating a collaborative story, and between that and work…yeah, busy month. I'll try to up the pace here; be assured, I have plenty planned for this one. I promise the action will be ramping up sooner rather than later, too…**_

_**For those of you who follow my other series, I'll be re-starting my current "Sea of Dreams" story due to…complications. Just FYI.**_

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Springtime brings rebirth to District 12 – but not to me.

Don't get me wrong. It's lovely here in the spring, when all the birds have come out and flowers begin to bloom. The woods are adorned in beautiful shades of pink and white bulbs, inviting me to take a stroll among the thick trees. It's nice to be alone here; lost with me and my thoughts, I feel at peace – or at least, as close as I can get to it. I didn't invite Flint here with me. He's a great guy, and I haven't quite figured out how I feel about him…but sometimes, being alone is the best remedy.

It also invites a number of unwanted questions.

I sit down on a fallen oak trunk, letting my legs flutter off the side as I stare into a sunken gully. Cold water runs down its rocky crevice, sparked by the last of the melting snow somewhere north of here. I flick a pebble off the log into the creek as a mockingjay begins to sing above me. It's some tune I don't recognize, but nonetheless, I start to feel less at peace and more in flux.

Why am I like this? I'm the daughter of two of the most recognized people in Panem. It's not like I'm starving as some do. According to my dad, things were really bad back before they launched their rebellion, with the majority of the district in poverty and in dire need of food. The time after the rebellion supposedly brought about a few years where very few suffered – guess that didn't last too long.

So why do I feel incomplete? I'm not hungry, I'm not crippled or diseased or poor – yet something's missing. I pick at the hem of my beige blouse as I consider things, pulling out a strand of fabric and sliding it under the tip of my fingernail.

I start to regret not inviting Flint with me.

Is that it? Am I just another stupid girl, desperate to fall in love so I'm not stuck around my parents all day after school? It's not like I really have friends anyway, but _something_ to get me out of this rut would be nice.

A snap of a twig startles me. I turn my head fast, catching sight of a blonde-haired girl stomping through the fresh grass. I know her – but for once, it's somebody I don't need to retreat from.

Vesta is sixteen, almost exactly a year older than me – our birthdays actually fall two days apart. We've known each other for some time, but she's certainly one of the nicest girls at school I know. She's not the model of pretty with a homely, round face and average figure that could afford to lose a few pounds, but maybe the pretty ones are the nastiest. Hera's a pretty good example for that theory.

"Thought I'd find you out here," Vesta speaks up in her usual optimistic tone. I don't think she actually has a bad thing to say about anyone. "You really like it here in the woods."

"Guess it's my mom wearing off on me," I offer a halfhearted smile. "How was school?"

"I missed you there," Vesta looks at me with an overly exaggerated disapproving frown as she sits on the log. "I, um, heard Hera saying some not-so-nice things about you. Were you just skipping?"

"No," I lie. "Well, yeah. Hera and I had a fun little talk yesterday."

"Well, if it was fun, why – "

"I was being sarcastic, Vesta." Sometimes the closest person I have to a friend can be entirely too trusting.

"Oh," she replies as if dismayed. "Also…I heard your mom talking with mine when I got home."

"Was she trying to shoot me?" I ask idly. Our parents are friends by the roughest use of the terminology; apparently Vesta's mother had helped to calm my dad after he'd been rescued by District 13 during the rebellion. Given how much my mom seems to care about herself, however, I can't at all see how they'd be compatible.

"No, of course not," Vesta responds, smoothing out her wrinkled blue skirt. "She said your family was going to the Capitol soon?"

Shoot – I forgot all about that! Every other year my mom and dad drag Reed and I off to a remembrance the Capitol holds for the rebellion, honoring the war dead and the tributes who died in past Hunger Games. Since my parents are celebrities and whatnot, apparently the vain people of the Capitol have to see how they're doing on a constant basis. They actually go every year, but only make us go every two. Usually the date jumps up on me, but this one seems even more dramatic.

Recently the Capitol hasn't been the glitzy, glamorous place my dad described it as during the height of the Hunger Games. Sometimes I wonder if those weren't the better days for the center of Panem's power – the days before roving bands of security police marched everywhere "for our protection and safety." In the needs of trying to make us feel safe, it seems the people who run this country have turned us all into zoo animals.

"Oh, yeah," I try to dismiss Vesta's concern with a wave of my hand and a look off into the woods. "That's in a week. Reed and I have to look nice and everything...it's kind of a hassle."

Vesta's quiet for a while as she stews over something in her head. Before I get around to breaking the silence, she speaks up: "Summer, is everything okay with you?"

"What?" I ask, giving her a puzzled look.

"It's just," Vesta looks at her pale hands, trying not to make eye contact. "That guy who likes you…Flint…"

"He what?"

"C'mon Summer, you have to know by now."

Not as fact, truth be told. It was impossible to miss his signs, but Flint had never actually _told_ me of his intentions or feelings. Our relationship had always been one of friends; something stable, something I could actually feel safe about. It had never been some dangerous jump off a cliff into that feeling known as love.

_Hypocrite_, I tell myself. _Just a minute ago you were asking yourself if you were just looking for live, and now you vehemently deny it?_

Vesta goes on, drawing me away from the nauseous feeling rising in my gut: "He said you two were talking the other day and that you sounded…well, he said it sounded different."

No way did he use that phrase: "Different?"

"It's…well," Vesta stumbles over telling me what I want to hear or concealing Flint's words. "He said you sounded kind of depressed. Not in like a kill-me way, but…"

"He doesn't know!" I say virulently before I can control myself, feeling heat rise to my face. "He doesn't have to live with all this…these expectations of trying to be what everyone wants! I'm sick of trying to stick to what everyone wants to see out of me, and how I can't just –"

I stop mid-sentence. Inadvertently, I've proven Flint right. Here I am in front of Vesta, spewing hatred against my family for no other reason than the feeling of being trapped.

Shoot, maybe I am depressed.

"Summer, I don't want to see you sad," Vesta gives me a pitiable look. "I know you're under a lot of pressure…with your mom and dad being who they are."

I know Vesta's trying to help me, but I just don't want to hear it. I've been judged by enough people, whether it's with crocodile tears like with Vesta or with the harsh dagger of Hera and her posse. There's a reason I like to be alone – out here in the woods by myself, only I can judge me.

"Look," I push my hands against the log. "I gotta go, Vesta…I have to talk to my brother about this Capitol stuff."

"Oh, of course," Vesta perks up instantly as if the prior conversation never happened. "I'll come with you."

_No._ "I…I want to be alone."

"Oh…okay," Vesta's face falls as she gets off the log, taking a step back away from me. "Okay…Summer, just…take care, okay?"

"Yeah," I answer, instantly feeling guilty. "You too."

As soon as Vesta's gone I start beating myself up. Great, one of the only people on this planet who cares about you and you tell her to get lost? That'll do wonders for making friends. This is why you're such a messed-up girl, Summer!

A mockingjay sings a mournful tune in the branches as I walk through the creek, unaware of the water that splashes against my boots. A week from now, I'll be on a train to the Capitol with my family – in front of hundreds of cameras again, eager to please their brain-dead audiences in District 1 and the Capitol. Not only am I going to have to present a happy face, but I'll have to try my hardest to pretend like I enjoy it all. All the attention…all the questions that don't want my answers, all the flashes of lights eager to dive into my deepest secrets.

My mom will tell me to suck it up. My dad will tell me it's something that'll make us stronger. Neither of them are right.

It's just one more thing of many that I want to cast out of my life.

I take a seat on a rock and let my left boot trail in the water. The creek fills in the space between shoe and foot, soaking my wool sock's every thread. I can barely even feel the cold, the wet – like so many things, I feel numb.

One time my mom – in one of her moments of clarity – told me she'd had the thought of running away from District 12 with some childhood friend of hers, a "Gale." At the time, I thought she was crazy. Who'd want to run off from warmth and clothes and security into the woods?

In times like now, however, I can't help but wonder if she should've taken that chance.


	4. Whiskey and Ghosts

_**A/N: Mockingjay1116, not to fear! It'll be soon…he is a major character, after all. Thanks for the reviews, everyone! Always appreciate feedback.**_

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Greens and browns whir by me in a kaleidoscope of colors. Woods and trees mesh into one large palette of mottled tan, thrown together in a giant mixing pot. At two hundred kilometers an hour, the train doesn't allow for much of a view of what's around me. I have to make do with staring off into the bright blue sky here in the viewing car, trying to savor my last day or two of privacy and anonymity before I'm thrown into the cage against legions of cameras and reporters.

My family and I boarded the train for the Capitol last night – me, Reed, my mom and dad, my aunt Prim and my cousin Iris – the last two only come because my mom frankly demands it. She thinks the Capitol doesn't give Prim credit for her work as a medic in the rebellion, but according to Prim's words, she didn't do much anyway. I choose to believe her honesty.

I don't know what'll happen when we get there, but my mom's already given me the run-down. People I've met before will be there – one rather bitter woman named Johanna who's apparently a fellow victor; Finnick and Annie and their two sons, Rayne and Drake; as well as Haymitch (who's probably passed out somewhere on this train) and several others. To be fair, I like very few of them. I haven't seen the Odairs in ages; they haven't made the trip the last few times I've come. The others, though…them I could without.

That particularly includes a woman from District 2 named Enobaria. I could _definitely _do without her and her arrogant snobbery.

I _can_ do with this train, however. It's not the monuments to lavish living like my parents describe their trains to the Hunger Games, but it's still quite nice accommodations. The viewing car hosts several plush beige couches, one of which currently supports my prone body as I gaze out a clear ceiling. A completely glassed-in rear panel gives me a look out the back of the train as trees disappear into the muted landscape behind me.

Some of the other cars are even nicer. The dining car sports fancy lighting suspended from the wall on chromed holders, while each bedroom has its own bath. I have an entire one _to myself_. Unfortunately, that led me to dawdling around in said bath for about an hour and a half this morning, losing myself in the water while rocking to the motion of the train.

Life could be worse.

"Summs," a rich male voice speaks out from the door of the car, causing me to flinch. "Mom says lunch is in ten."

Reed leans against the wall at the door, all six foot-three of him looming large over me. He's just started working at one of the medicine factories back home since he's eighteen, but he's built well enough to work in any of the apple orchards or hay farms. By comparison, I'm about half his size – without his light blonde hair that girls around the district seem to love. No, Reed got the looks of the family. I was left with…whatever I am.

"Okay," I mutter, looking back at the clear sky.

"What's up?" he doesn't take the hint, sprawling out on a couch opposite me. "I don't think I've even talked to you the past week. You've been in your room so much when you're not at school."

"Nothing, Reed," I protest.

"C'mon, I've known you for fifteen years," he replies, easily beating past my lie. "Is it that boy who likes you? I can punch him if you want."

"Why does everybody but me know about a boy who likes me?" I groan. Does the entirety of District 12 know about Flint's feelings? "And no, don't hit him. He's nice."

I might not approve of Reed's womanizing ways, but at least he's protective of me. We're different in plenty of ways, but I'm glad he's not one of those brothers who flat-out hate their younger siblings.

"You sure?" he asks me overdramatically, staring right into my eyes. I can only just keep myself from laughing, but a stupid smile plays across my lips as he flops down in a couch beside mine. "Fine, I'll leave him alone. Why are you so quiet?"

I shrug at him as I look at the floor. Why does he want to know? I'm always like this…there's nothing to say. Eventually I manage to make up a half-truth: "I don't really wanna go to the Capitol."

Reed smirks: "Who does. What a fun place. Bet we get jumped by that Plutarch guy the second we step off the train."

Ugh. From all of Plutarch's visits to District 12 and my mother, I already know I don't like the man. The wealthy Chief Advisor to the President has accumulated a lot of power recently serving as the public face of Panem's leader. The President – President Fictus, a woman in her sixties from District 1 – is rarely seen outside of carefully-taped messages. It's been the eccentric Plutarch who's represented her hand as the Capitol has slowly taken back all the gains of the districts during the Rebellion, according to my mother. Mom's said before that Plutarch's a dangerous sort, second only to one man in Panem – the Executor.

Executor Cassus is the leader of President Fictus's enforcement arm, the Praetorians – "the successors to the Peacekeepers," as my mom calls them. These gray-clad soldiers are bad enough, supposedly "protecting freedom and democracy," but Cassus is something else. It's rumored he's from District 2, but no one – _nobody at all_ – knows who he is. The man wears a black cloak over onyx battle armor, covered up to the tips of his fingers in fiber. Even his face is sheathed in a carbon deaths-head mask, concealing whatever identity lies beneath. How _he_ is supposed to safeguard Panem's "democracy" is beyond me; he sounds built for the Capitol's tyranny that my mom fought to destroy.

Just thinking about the Capitol makes me wish I was headed anywhere else.

"Well, think of it this way," Reed diverts my thoughts to the present as he rambles on. "Mom says Plutarch and all those rich people are obsessed with all the Victors and whatnot; maybe they'll leave you alone. You can hang with Finnick's kid and stay out of the spotlight."

"I don't even remember that guy," I murmur. "Drake?"

"Yeah, that's his name."

Truthfully, I don't remember him. My images of Finnick and Annie's youngest son swim vaguely in my head – a boy around my age, tall, well-built and confident with a short cropping of bronzed hair. In short, everything I'm not. I've seen these types of guys before; they want nothing to do with girls like me.

"Think I'll just stay out of the way," I pick at a fingernail as I reply.

"You can't just hide, Sis," Reed looks at me with an expression stuck between amusement and concern. "Look, uh…I'm not good at this stuff, but you sure everything's okay?"

I'm not good at this stuff, either, and I have no desire to talk to Reed about my feelings. My mom's shown me just how well that works out, and I quickly brush him off with an awkward reply: "I'm fine. I'll…see you at lunch."

I brush past him as I walk out of the viewing car, looking away as I rub a lock of hair behind my ear. Why does everyone have all these questions? Can't even my own brother let me be? As I try to pull away, more and more I see all those people who drive me to do so trying to intrude on my space. It's frustrating at its best; suffocating at its worst.

That's the good thing about Flint. He's the one guy in District 12 who knows well enough to leave me be when I need space. In a way, he's better family than my _actual _family. At least he understands me.

I wish he was here now.

Lunch hums along with me sitting in the background, listening to my other family members talking among themselves. My dad and my Aunt Prim talk over old memories of the Capitol back from the days after the Rebellion, trading small-talk about smoke and ruins. They laugh about things now, but I can see hurt in the corner of my dad's eyes. The memories and scars haven't faded yet; not completely.

Prim's daughter, my cousin Iris, is the only one I can talk easily with. Since she's only twelve, she doesn't judge with the harshness of my mom or the patronizing sympathy of my dad. No, she's still got some childish innocence that flows in her wavy blonde hair and soft pale face; certainly more than I've got, by any means. Iris's dad, an uncle I've long forgotten, died just days after she'd been born. Aunt Prim hadn't even taken his name, leading me to believe that Iris probably grew up better without him. She's a ray of sunshine among all this dead weight around me.

Nonetheless, I inhale my food and find the quickest way to escape the meal. It's not as if the food was bad – quite the contrary – but I don't want to be around everyone while they're so chatty. Not now.

I make my way back to the viewing car, stubbing my toe on an exposed wall sprocket as I do so. I bite my lip and grit my teeth in response to the pain as I open the door to the last car of the train, happy for the solitude at last.

Unfortunately, I'm not alone.

Haymitch Abernathy lies on the couch I formerly occupied, a crystal glass filled with brown liquid in his left hand. He stares with vacant eyes out the glassed-in car, watching the trees and forests zip by. There's something about his face - so lost and empty, with unkempt hair and streaks of dirt - that's familiar.

"I'm sorry," I mutter quietly. "I'll leave you."

"No," Haymitch replies, his words echoing with a somber growl. "Have a seat, sweetheart."

I hate it when he calls me that. He uses the same pet name on my mom, and I sure don't want the association. Regardless, I take a seat across from him on the couch, kicking off my sandals and pulling my knees to my chest.

"Not lookin' forward to the Capitol?" Haymitch says without looking at me.

"No," I murmur.

"You're right," he replies. "There's somethin' dark there."

Haymitch is an enigma. To me, he's always the man my mom goes and drinks with; the strange third Victor of District 12 who raises geese and drinks whiskey all day. I don't know what my mom finds so interesting about him that she's always happy to go to his place; maybe now I have the chance to find out. Once again, my curiosity manages to beat out my shy apprehension.

"Dark?" I ask, egging him on.

"Your mom…and all we fought for…that was s'posed to make everything right, Summer," he belches, refilling his glass from a half-empty glass bottle. "I 'member Plutarch telling us on the hovercraft back from the Capitol after Katniss had been cleared of anything. It was supposed to be democracy like he'd read in those old books. I didn't buy it. Sounded too perfect. Look at Plutarch now; certainly likes his dinner parties and benefits, don't he? What's that do to the people who're still starving in the district? It ain't changed. Never does. It's going slowly back to what it used to be; by the time you're all grown up, it'll be like the Capitol never went away."

Haymitch takes a long swig from his glass, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and setting the whiskey down on a table: "Hell, maybe they'll bring back the Games while they're at it."

"What were they like?" I ask tepidly, knowing full well that I'm broaching a sensitive topic. "The Hunger Games, I mean. My mom doesn't want to talk about it much…my dad just gets quiet."

Haymitch laughs, shoving the bottle of whiskey in my direction after he's filled up his glass: "You might want some if we're going off the deep end, sweetheart. Don't tell Katniss."

I've told myself I won't try alcohol; I've seen what it does to my mom. I've seen it turn her into something dark; something to be feared, something angry…I can't partake. I can't turn into that. I can't be like her. Can't give in to her failings…can't…

What the hell. It's got to do something right if it gets Haymitch to forget his past.

I turn and grab a glass off the condiment table, pouring myself a half-glass of whiskey. The fumes overpower my noise as I bring the glass to my lips, forcing me to scrunch my eyes as I tilt back the cocktail to take a sip.

_Blech!_

I force myself to swallow the concoction, as bad as it is. How can Haymitch – and my mom, for that matter – like this stuff? As the bitter liquid flows down my throat, I feel something else…something _nice_. A heat wells up from my throat and stomach, bringing up visions of sitting in front of a fire on a cold winter day.

I want more.

"Looks like you loved that," Haymitch laughs at me. "But you want to know about the Games…alright, sweetheart. If Katniss an' Peeta ain't talking, I guess I'll have to do. What do you want to know?"

I kick back another drink, welcoming the warmth as I open up to Haymitch: "You won, right? Why won't my mom and dad talk about it if you can?"

He shrugs: "Everybody gets over their problems in a different way. Your father…he had an adjustment period after the Rebellion and what-all. Hit him and your mother hard. Can't blame 'em if they don't wanna talk about those kinda things, back when it seems like everybody was dyin'. That's just how the Games were; one winner out of twenty-four kids. When you gotta kill to survive…well, you get a lil' jaded."

"Jaded?"

"We ain't born to murder people, Summer. In the Games, that's what we were forced to do. Kill another kid so you can go home; bring glory to your district by making some other poor bastard die for his. I killed three in my Games. Your father killed one in the heat of the moment; barely even knew he was dead at the end of the last Hunger Games. Your mother racked up a pretty impressive kill count. That kinda thing don't just leave you. Some Victors…they were like me; drank themselves almost to death. Others tried Morphling. Others just committed suicide. Couldn't live with the guilt and the memories. It's worse if you knew someone in the arena. Their face comes back to you when you sleep…eventually ya' just don't sleep."

There's something funny about the whiskey. Usually I'll listen to other people's problems only so far as to hear their words. Here in my first real conversation with Haymitch, however, my head grows woozier and I'm keenly hooked on his words. I pour myself another glass as he goes on, surprising myself with my newly-found taste for the alcohol.

"Last place I want to be is back where it happened every year," Haymitch takes a long drink as he speaks. "Capitol. Where you don't have a choice what you do; pushed from place to place as you watch your kids die for another year. Sorry if I'm not excited, sweetheart. It's not exactly thrilling."

I'm quiet for a moment as I digest what he's said. The alcohol's getting to my head, making it feel like my brain's pushing to get out on all sides with a throbbing relentlessness. Maybe the drinks weren't such a good idea; nonetheless, I pour myself another glass. The whiskey's making me strangely conversational. Where I'm usually quiet and reserved, the alcohol's turned me into a curious bundle of questions and imagination.

"So you really think it's going to go back to that?" I ask after I've taken another drink. "When…they just take kids and make them kill each other."

"Yes, sweetheart, we're actually sending you to your death right now. Bring the bottle with you."

Haymitch sees the horrified look on my face and backs off: "Alright, that wasn't very funny. No, I don't think they're going to send you into an arena and make you kill a bunch of other kids. But I don't pretend to imagine what Plutarch and his cronies think up; the Games were all about control, sweetheart. There's a lot of ways to do that, some of which could be worse than twenty-three kids dying each year. Who knows what it'll end up with at this point. Seems like we rebelled for nothing."

I'm no longer hearing his words; just listening. As the alcohol makes my stomach feel sick and my head throb, the thoughts of something horrifying coming my way take over. Is Haymitch just trying to stave off my fears now? The Capitol isn't a nice place; he's right – but could they be thinking up something like that?

And it's all too obvious: If they _did_ want to make an example out of a bunch of kids, I'd be the first to go. Reed's too old, but if the Capitol wanted the child of someone famous, of course they'd go to the daughter of the two most recognized rebels in Panem. That's me.

Haymitch reads me like a book: "Look, sweetheart, they probably do nothing. Plutarch's just a man who wants his dinner parties. The President's old and frail. You got nothin' to worry about."

Too late. The whiskey's made me feel good, but it's also exacerbated my fears; of which I already have too many.

"I don't feel good," I whimper, putting my empty glass down on the table. "I'm going to go back to my room."

"Yeah," Haymitch mutters, staring at his own half-empty glass. "Yeah."

I hear the sloshing of whiskey as I leave. Haymitch is pouring himself another glass.


	5. Entrance

The bathroom still smells like vomit as I stumble wearily into the shower in the morning. I lean against a tiled wall to support myself against the movement of the train, letting warm water ease me back into a semi-aware state. My face no longer feels numb from the alcohol; that's a start. I'm not barfing anymore, either.

Better than last night.

I hastily throw on a checkered shirt and loose-fitting pants before stumbling out into the car's hall. The scenery flying past the windows has changed; no longer do forests and woodlands mesh into blurred colors, replaced with alpine plains flanked by snow-capped mountains in the distance. It's a scene I've seen before, but in my hungover state, I take a minute to appreciate the landscape's beauty. It's truly a pretty world here near the Capitol. I feel like I could spend weeks, months even, exploring those mountains off in the distance – the white-peaked sentinels watching over the world like ancient philosophers or kings.

I don't have long to admire the view, however. A firm hand slams me out of nowhere, smashing me into the wall of the car and holding me down with brute strength. It doesn't take me two seconds to figure out who's on my case.

"I don't want to see you with him again," my mom hisses in my ear, her face an inch from my own. "Or anywhere near a drop of that stuff."

"It seems to work for you," I mutter back at her, refusing to look her in the eye.

She grimaces, pulling away but quickly returning to her usual unhappy expression: "I've known him for longer. You don't know him. If I hear that you're getting drunk again, I swear…"

I don't bother to ask what. It's _hypocrisy_; that's what it is. So my mom can drink her painful memories away without any sort of repercussions, yet when I do it, it's some sort of travesty? I don't care if I don't know Haymitch well, or if I just yesterday did my first round with liquor. She doesn't know me. She doesn't understand what goes around in my head, and I don't care what the Hunger Games or whatever else there was makes her moody. We're both people.

My mom lets me go, walking away without so much as a conclusion. I brush my shoulder where she gripped me, trying to get her _essence_ free from my clothes. The last thing I want now is to spend a week with her and the rest of my family in the Capitol. At least the interviewers and cameras should take her away from _some_ of the time, but the rest will be terrible. There will be no escape from the combination of overbearing parents and paparazzi completely ignorant of private boundaries. At least in District 12 I can run to the woods.

Breakfast is a solemn affair. I pick over a biscuit on my plate, eyes down as my mom and Aunt Prim talk over various interviews they each have with the press. Making it worse is Iris; my cousin's far too perky for my brooding start to the day.

"I'm excited," iris tells me as my dad and Reed are in the midst of some serious discussion. "All the people in the Capitol are so different from the district."

"Shallow, maybe," I murmur in response.

"What?"

"They're stupid. They care more about clothes than anything else."

"They're not stupid," Iris says quietly, looking at me like I'm an alien. "It's just…different."

"In a dumb way," I retort. She's a cute girl, but she's so naïve. "Yes they're stupid. They don't understand that people are still starving back home and in other places; that they're just doing everything the same that ended up in a civil war last time. Nobody in the Capitol changes. It's just one big dumb mess."

I realize too late that I'm practically shouting, with everyone's eyes on me. Unable to bear the stares, I quickly push my chair away from the table.

"I'm…going to go back to my room. Tell me when we're there."

I snatch a scone and escape before more questions come in. Why is everyone but me so excited about this stupid trip to please the media? I could be home right now; since it's Saturday, I'd be trying to get out of the house and find somewhere quiet and alone. Maybe I'd even be with Vesta or Flint; people who actually _get_ me.

"Breakfast not a happy affair, huh?"

Haymitch nearly runs into me as I walk with my head down in the hall. He's still clutching the bottle of whiskey from yesterday, now nearly empty with just a swig's worth of alcohol left. Noxious fumes reek from his breath; he's probably been drinking all night.

"I'm not supposed to talk to you," I grunt sarcastically. "You're a 'bad influence.'"

Haymitch laughs: "Guess I was on her, too. I'd give you a 'don't let her get to you' speech, sweetheart, but I really need to sleep. I'm drunk and tired."

He shoves past me, headed back for his car and whatever alcohol-imbued dreams await. In some ways, I envy him. Forgetting a lifetime of pain seems better than living day-to-day with a burden you can't even open up about. I'd rather drink away my simmering thoughts than keep bottling them up inside me like a powder keg ready to blow.

I barely notice as the train starts slowing down when the whitewashed geometric buildings of the Capitol come into view. I refuse to look out the window, staving off the inevitable until the darkness of the tunnel leading to the station engulfs my room. Knowing my mother will complain if I don't look "respectable," I quickly change into a blue blouse and matching skirt, doing my best to pretend to be the prodigal daughter for the cameras. Oh, how I hate them.

The rest of my family meets me by the train's door, each with their own expression ranging from sour and angry to enthusiastic and excited. My dad gives me a pat on the shoulder, trying to sympathize as I cross my arms over my chest.

As soon as the doors open, a thousand flashbulbs light up with a blinding invasiveness. I show off a fake smile for the cameras, doing my best to fit in despite my overwhelming urge to punch the nearest cameraman in the face. I suppose it's just their job, but I can't help but see them as attacking invaders intruding on my space.

My mom and dad take their time weaving through the crowd, each playing the part of a celebrity couple happy to be in the Capitol. I feel my temper rising the longer the tromp to the Remake Center takes. I'm on the verge of balling my hand into a fist under the white lights of the station before we finally reach the curved doors that slide open to welcome us, giving me an opportunity to scamper away from the reporters. I'm happy to take the chance; as I do, I can't help but feel pity for Iris as she waves with a hearty grin to the gaggle of paparazzi everywhere. She'll learn in time that these aren't people to be trusted.

A brown-haired swoosh appears out of nowhere as soon as the doors close, embracing my mom with a loud cry of "Katniss!" Annie Odair's enthusiastic greeting is admirable in a way; she's a woman who has overcome some _real_ troubles, unlike all the things my mom likes to cite. Maybe she is just a crazy girl at heart, but I can't help but smile as she follows up by grabbing my dad in a big hug, her green eyes slammed tightly shut and her wavy hair flying everywhere.

Finnick is unmistakable as he grabs my dad's hand with a hearty shake. The man may be in his late 40s, but Finnick's chiseled face and bronzed hair is still unmistakable even more than two decades after the rebellion. The navy blue suit he wears complements his appearance to a tee; he's the perfect person to go in front of those cameras I hate so much. I'm jealous in a way; Finnick is everything I'm not. Where I'm moody and silent, he's personable and chatty, the perfect emissary to the shallow Capitol audience.

I take a minute while the adults get acquainted to absorb my surroundings. The foyer of the Remake Center undoubtedly puts on a show – high, arching ceilings seamlessly transition into blue granite walls. Spartan furniture leaves the entire entrance hall giving off a feeling of open space, with only a vacant reception desk and several leather couches around. The Remake Center's now used as a convention center, but it's no stretch to see why it used to be the entrance point for tributes to the Hunger Games. This would make a strong impression on anyone.

"Enjoying the view?"

I turn to the voice addressing me, spotting a chestnut-haired boy leaning against a couch with a pair of green eyes watching me. He's well-built, unmistakable as one of Finnick's sons in a green button-down shirt and black tie. Clearly the Odairs know how to dress well.

"Maybe," I respond cautiously. Better figure out what he's after before I get too deep in conversation.

"You don't remember me," he laughs, pushing himself off the couch. "Drake. Drake Odair…I still remember you, Summer."

"I don't really like guys who dream about me," I sniff. What am I doing?

He laughs anyway, despite my misgivings: "Feisty, huh? Guess I should expect that from the daughter of the Girl on Fire."

I've had enough of this Drake guy's rambling. Maybe he is Finnick's youngest son, but I sure as heck don't remember him – and frankly, he's not making a great first impression so far: "Are you…looking for something? Because I'm pretty sure we're supposed to be heading for the hotels in the old Training Center right about now after everyone finishes catching up."

"So eager," Drake chuckles at me. "Where are you in such a hurry to go? Are you that excited to jump in front of the cameras again? I think we'll get enough of that. Frankly, I'm happy for a few minutes to slow down."

His words give me pause. I always figured the Odair family as something of a media spectacle. After all, Finnick commanded the Capitol's popularity back during the Hunger Games and remained a powerful man in social circles after the rebellion. But something about the way Drake mentions the media…and slowing down…makes me wonder whether he's different. I'm always hesitant to give people chances, but perhaps he deserves one.

"Slow down?" I ask tentatively. "I thought life was always fast out in District 4…at least faster than it is in District 12."

"Maybe if you watch Plutarch Heavensbee on TV you'd think so," Drake flashes a look at my dad and his in conversation before returning to me. "But we're just like anybody else. That's not what you're really asking though, is it? You've got something else on your mind. You don't really want to be here, do you?"

He _is _perceptive, I'll give him that: "No, I don't."

"Well, at least there's two of us."

"_You_ don't want to be here? But…your dad is like…the patron saint of these people in the Capitol."

"And so is your mom," he laughs at me. "Good thing we're not them, huh?"

I notice my finger unconsciously curling a strand of my hair and try to pull myself together. There's something about this boy…

"I, uh…" I manage to say after a pause. "I guess so. So…you don't like it?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Drake replies with the slightest grin touching his lips. "The food's good. But if you want to talk serious stuff, let's ditch the cameras when we get to the hotel. We can get some actual privacy, as crazy as that sounds here."

For once, I'm not going to argue about this plan.


	6. Peace Divided

The Training Center – now our "hotel" – is beyond nice. Forget the amenities of home in District 12; this place has it all. There's fine furniture; windows that can tune to any view across Panem you want; food made to order at any time, with any ingredients. Despite the rebellion that supposedly made us all "equal," the Capitol never lost much of the grandeur that my parents still talk about back during the Hunger Games years. Frankly, I don't mind _this_ part of the trip one bit. Surrounded by this place and free from the prying eyes of the media, I feel just fine.

Drake's not hurting the situation, either.

"Feels like they're fattening us up to slaughter or something," he jokes as we walk about the Odairs' floor. "Give us a bunch of food and then toss us in front of the whole country with a bunch of interviews. Really nice of them. Maybe if we're lucky, we'll get to go fight to the death in an arena afterwards."

"No; we'd have to get even _more_ interviews after we won," I kid. Something about Drake makes me ease up; I'm feeling far more at home with my parents already out mingling with Johanna Mason and the other famous people of the rebellion. "That wouldn't be any fun."

"No fun?" Drake laughs, pushing a hand through his hair. "You're just not doing it right, then."

"How am I supposed to talk to cameras _right_?" I ask incredulously, throwing my hands in the air. "All they want to know is if my mom's gotten over all her past and whatever. I don't really care."

"Tell you what," Drake says, veering the conversation quickly away from cameras and lights and all that publicity. "Since we've got until late tonight to ourselves with our parents out, let's forget about all this Capitol stuff and bring some food up here. We can…catch up, and all that. Leave all the media behind."

Tempting: "Well…I mean, do you think anybody's expecting us to be somewhere? If we're not – "

"Who cares?" Drake waves away my creeping fears with a nonchalant wave of his hand. It's so smooth that it takes me by surprise; it's a boldness and confidence that I wouldn't expect from someone in conservative District 12. "What's going to happen if we are supposed to be somewhere? Nothing. So while we have some privacy…let's enjoy it."

I don't even have anything to protest this time: "Well…okay. Lead the way."

An hour later, I'm seated across from him at the big dining table on the floor. Dishes of tasty food lie half-eaten across the table, brought up by servants without a hitch. Ribs stick out of a long fish that overloaded my taste buds with salty tang; orange fruits dare me to take another bite of their sweet and sour explosions. Two bowls of soup that we hardly made a dent in still simmer with seafood and meats that I've never even heard of, while salads brimming with the freshest produce invite me to push my bursting stomach to the brink. I want another bite of something, _anything_, so bad, but I'm so full I can barely even move.

"So, let me get this straight," Drake leans his elbows on the table, pushing his plate to the side and taking a sip of some brown drink. "Haymitch Abernathy is the country's oldest victor, and the guy raises _geese_? And he doesn't even eat them?"

"Yes!" I exclaim, maybe a little too enthusiastically. Whatever's in my glass – a red drink I think is some sort of sweetened wine, but it's getting to my head regardless – has me talking excitedly where I'd normally shy away from the conversation. "He raises geese and drinks with my mom. That's like, all he does. I've never even talked with him until last night on the train here."

"That's ridiculous," Drake laughs, showing a white set of teeth as he smiles. "Never seen anybody like that back in District 4."

"What's it like?" I ask.

"What's what like?"

"District 4. I don't even remember it…I can't even picture anything. At school they tell us about the other districts, but I can't put anything real together about them."

"You have such a bad memory," he jokes. "First you can't remember me, then you can't even remember my district. Ugh. Okay, fine – we live in this place called Panem – "

"I know that!" I protest. "I mean, like…the ocean, and everything. We don't have that in District 12."

"Well, it's got a _lot_ of water…"

"Drake!"

"Alright," he laughs. "Well…this is new; I don't have to describe my district to too many people, usually. Our house runs up a cliff above the rocky beach; during the day you can see the morning fog roll out and the sun come out. During the night, it's easy to fall asleep when you can hear the surf hitting the shore. We're about a ten-minute walk from District 4's downtown itself; there I can find all the canneries and fisheries, along with the main docks. There's all sorts of boats tied up there; my dad has a personal one, as does my brother, since he'll probably move out soon to live with his girlfriend. Pretty much everyone who has a good living has a boat. You can take off at any time; just go off out on the water and get away if need be."

Something about this sounds so…_idyllic_ to me. I can get away in the woods back in District 12, but escaping everything out on the ocean…I wouldn't have to deal with _anyone_. All that water; nobody would be able to find me. Not my mother, not Hera and her little band of bullies that have a great time at my expense. I could just be…alone. Alone and at peace.

Suddenly, District 12 doesn't seem like such a great place any more. I'd gladly skip the snow-packed winters and humid summers for falling asleep to the sound of waves on a cliff.

"I don't know," Drake concludes, talking all the while I've been dreaming. "I grew up with it, so I guess I take District 4 for granted. But enough about me – what's District 12 like? You've grown up there."

"I…uh," I stumble over my words. I haven't thought about describing my home; how am I supposed to paint a pretty picture of life when he's just articulated something I can only fantasize about?

"Tell you what," Drake interjects. "Why don't you show me? We can program the windows to any place in Panem, after all."

As I've come to realize over the course of the day, Drake's prepared for any eventuality. He leads me off to the living room, scooting a chair out of the way with his foot and grabbing the window remote from a table. He pushes a few buttons, staring blankly at the small piece of plastic for a moment before working out how to control it. I'm about to laugh at him before he clicks a few buttons and the windows changes drastically. Gone is the scene of the Capitol at night, with snowy mountains shrouded by artificial light. In its place…are my woods.

Orange hues have turned into green leaves. Glittering silver buildings have transformed into thick brown tree trunks. People do not move about the streets like ants; actual bugs crawl around fallen logs as a mockingjay cries overhead. I feel a strange sense of nostalgia; as much as I want to see and feel District 4, there's something comforting about home in this strange land.

"Familiar?" Drake offers from behind me, shaking me out of my stupor. "I can see why you'd like it there."

"It's…home, I guess," I manage to say. "Only one I know."

"Well…in a place like here in the Capitol," he replies, putting a hand on my shoulder and playing with my ponytail in his fingers. "It's easy to get caught up in all the buzz. Nice to have something to hold onto."

'Yeah," I squeak. Something about him has changed; his words come off as less refined and bold, replaced with something carnal. It gives me an upsetting feeling in my stomach.

"So how 'bout you, Summer?" he asks. "What are you looking for here?"

He turns my shoulder so that I'm facing him. His green eyes have taken a new look. They're no longer looking to ask me questions about my life; they're looking for something deeper; something I can't do. We just got reacquainted _today_; this is too fast.

"No," I put a hand on his shoulder, pushing off from him. "No, Drake; I can't do this."

"Summer," he looks confused as his words stumble. "I'm just…"

"No," I repeat. "No, I…I need some space. Need some time by myself."

I hurry away to one of the floor's bedrooms before he can respond, closing the door behind me. I don't even bother to take stock of the room as I fall on the wide bed, lying face-down on the soft sheets that easily take my weight. I smash my face into the down pillow as I ponder my stupidity; I actually find chemistry with a guy and what do I do? I push him away and run before he even gets a chance to prove himself. I'm such a coward. I can't even do _anything_ right.

Maybe this is why my mom can't stand me. I'm not a fighter or the face of a rebellion like she was; I'd just wilt under the pressure like a dead flower. I'm no role model – just a stupid girl who can't control herself.

Over an hour passes as I take shallow breaths into the pillow, only vaguely aware of the tears spilling out of my blue eyes. A sharp knock on the door awakens me from my stupor. Thinking it's Drake letting me know it's time to attend to our "duties" as children of the victors, I push myself up from the bed, saying, "Alright, I'm coming."

"Ms. Mellark?" a throaty, chalky voice from the other side of the door inquires of me. "You're needed as soon as possible."

I take a cautious look out the door and come face to face with someone I absolutely _didn't_ expect. A gray-armored Praetorian stands outside my door with a rifle tucked under his arm, his face completely concealed by his steel helmet. A chilling cold shiver snakes its way up my spine as I take an involuntary step back – am I in some sort of trouble? I didn't even do anything yet!

"Wh - what is it?" I ask nervously.

"You have thirty minutes to dress into something more formal," the Praetorian says. If he's judging me with his eyes, I certainly can't tell. Being unable to see the soldier's face is just the slightest bit unnerving. "And to clean up your image."

"Why?" I answer meekly, looking out into the living room. Drake's leaning against a couch, his face ashen. He's still feeling embarrassed about me running off in all likelihood, and the Praetorian's sudden appearance isn't helping. What does this guy want with me?"

"You will be at the Capitol Opera Hall," the Praetorian answers curtly. "Minister Heavenesbee has requested your presence."

_Plutarch_. He's never shown much interest in me; why does he want me now? Usually that man is obsessed with interrogating my parents about everything under the sun, but all he's ever asked of me is how I like being the daughter of two famous people. Now he thinks he can just meet with me? Something else is going on here that I don't yet understand: "He…why does he want to see me?"

"Classified."

I don't like the sound of that: "Can…is anyone else coming with me?"

"No. He has requested your presence only. Please return to your floor and prepare."

I take a step out of the bedroom, throwing a careful look at Drake. He meets my eyes for just a moment, but the confidence is gone. I've hurt him more than I know by slapping away his overtures.

I should have enjoyed my evening while I still had the time. Now I'm off on some other horrible errand that I'm already feeling won't end well.


End file.
